The Case of Sawamura Eijun
by PK Samurai
Summary: [One-shot] The investigation of any persons in the immediate vicinity of Sawamura Eijun who may harbor ill or harmful intentions towards him. AU. OOC.


**The Case of Sawamura Eijun**

[ one-shot ]

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Another experimental short-story. Heavily influenced by Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Very AU and OOC. If you're still willing to read, I'd highly appreciate it.

* * *

><p>It was a cold Saturday afternoon near the end of November. They were seated at one of the tables on the outdoor deck of a small café somewhere in Roppongi.<p>

A cigarette dangled between his lips. With one hand, he flicked the lighter, and with the other, he shielded the flame from the chilly breeze. He sucked in. The cigarette's end turned a roasting red. He could feel the smoke rushing into his lungs.

He exhaled, and watched it dissipate. A thin long line of smoke curled out from the cigarette's tip.

"I'm sorry, but can you put that out?" asked the man sitting beside him. "I didn't want to say anything, but the wind's blowing it my way. Second-hand smoking is a serious problem, you see."

Youichi shot a sharp glance at him, but the man's face showed an expression as blankly polite as the white baseball uniform he usually wore, so after a moment's hesitation, he stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray.

"Thank you for understanding, detective." The man's manager turned to him, the sides of his face flushing lightly red. He was a smaller man with middle-length hair falling loosely around his face. He had introduced himself as Kominato. "Eijun doesn't like the smell of cigarette smoke."

"Athletes should take good care of their bodies." Youichi gave them a brisk upward quirk of his lips. "Especially pro pitchers."

The pro pitcher Sawamura Eijun returned his smile with a flat look. Then without further comment, he resumed what he had been doing for the entirety of their stay: staring at his left hand. At the moment, it was wrapped in white bandages, but Sawamura's eyes were fixated on an increasingly darkening spot near the base of his hand.

"So about the contract…" started Youichi.

"Oh, of course," said Kominato.

With several smooth movements that belied his messy appearance, he took out a glossy folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table. Youichi reached for it, and cursorily flipped through its contents, ascertaining that Kominato had filled out the appropriate boxes. Commencement dates, initial fees, additional activity fees, confidentiality clauses, mutual cooperation agreements, …and of course, the purpose of the investigation. In clear, looping handwriting, the pitcher's manager had written:

_The investigation of any persons in the immediate vicinity of Sawamura Eijun who may harbor ill or harmful intentions towards him._

It had been on the news.

One morning a week ago, Youichi had opened the refrigerator and realized that there was nothing left except for an expired plastic box of washed salad greens. After a minute of blankly staring at the grubby white walls, he put on a jacket and then went outside and started the engine of his car. He drove to the grocery store, and just as he pulled into the parking lot, he realized that the radio had been on the whole time.

Youichi sat there in his car for several minutes and listened to the NHK anchor talk about how the starter for the Yakult Swallows had gotten his pitching hand crushed by an unknown assailant. Then he got out and bought a carton of eggs, a jug of milk, a bag of bagels, and a pack of frozen sausages. He drove back home, and realized that he had left the front door ajar.

They had not yet managed to uncover the culprit behind the assault. But somehow, the pitcher's manager had found Youichi's business card.

Youichi pulled out his pen and signed the confidentiality clauses, before ripping off the white NCR paper, leaving behind the yellow copy for himself. He slid it across the paper to Kominato, who carefully tucked it back in his briefcase.

Pushing their chairs back with a clatter, Kominato and Sawamura rose to their feet to leave.

"Is there any reason why you couldn't leave the investigation to the police?" Youichi began to pull out a slightly crumpled Seven Stars carton from his pocket.

Kominato paused, and gave a furtive glance toward Sawamura, who even now was staring down at his ruined hand with dark fascination. "This matter is…a bit too sensitive for that."

* * *

><p>Settling down before his office desk, Youichi lay several papers out in an array. At its very center was the profile of the man whose case he was now investigating:<p>

_Sawamura Eijun. 25 years old. Southpaw starter for the Tokyo Yakult Swallows._

_Hometown, Nagano Prefecture. He began playing baseball as a young child, and was recruited by a baseball powerhouse high school in Tokyo._

_He became the team's ace in his second year and led his school to two appearances at Koshien, posting a 1.60 ERA for his high school career. Immediately following his high school graduation, he was drafted in the first-round pick by the Yakult Swallows, and after several successful years as a reliever, he was made their starter at the age of 23._

There had been rumors flying around that Sawamura would soon be posted to a Major League Baseball team, but with his pitching hand now crushed, such talk had come to a jarring halt. Even if his pro baseball career wasn't completely over – which it likely was – he was most certainly out for the rest of the season.

Youichi flipped past several more pages listing the young pro pitcher's accomplishments, before reaching the last lone page detailing his client's more personal information.

There wasn't much to go on, truthfully speaking. Sawamura was an only child, and his parents lived comfortably in an apartment he'd bought for them back in his hometown. He had never been seen in public with any sort of romantic liaison. Outside of a few scattered number of old acquaintances, Sawamura didn't seem to have many friends. But he had a good public image, and was popularly received by the fans. His teammates also all seemed to share a respectful opinion of him.

It seemed that someone, however, had hated him enough to go after him in the dark one night, and smash his left hand multiple times with a brick.

The news stations were speculating that it may not have been a personal attack, but rather an attack on the team itself. Knocking their star pitcher out for the season would certainly knock the Yakult Swallows out of the running to top the league.

Something in Youichi's gut told him, however, that whoever had attacked Sawamura, had attacked him with him specifically in mind. So who, then? And why?

Well, that was what Youichi was here to find out.

Picking up another lone piece of paper from his desk, his eyes fixed on the name written on top: _Aotsuki Wakana_. She was listed as a childhood friend of Sawamura, one of the few he had kept in touch with after leaving his hometown. Incidentally, on the official report, she had been the last person to see him on the night before he was attacked.

_Bzzzzt._

Youichi glanced at the camera monitor mounted on his desk, to see a young woman looking up at him from the screen. He pressed the buzzer to let her in, and a few seconds later, the door opened. A cold gust of wind blew into the room.

"Detective Kuramochi?" ventured the woman, looking around his office uncertainly. She tightly gripped the handle of a pointy umbrella in her hand.

"That's me," said Youichi, getting up and holding out a hand. "You must be Aotsuki-san."

Somewhat surprisingly, she had been cooperative from the moment he had called her and detailed her on his investigation.

"Oh, please, call me Wakana," she said as she shook his hand. She then shrank into the leather sofa, seeming determined to take up as little space as possible. Youichi went around the back of the sofa, making sure to make as much sound as possible, before bringing back two cups of hot water and two green tea bags.

"Thank you," said Wakana, accepting the cup. She took a single sip before lowering it down on a coaster on the coffee table. Youichi sat down on the armchair on the opposite side.

"I'm sorry for making you come out here," he said, beginning the usual exchange of formalities. "I could have met you instead…"

"Oh, no. It was no trouble at all. I would have preferred to meet you here," she answered.

"I see." Youichi took a sip from his cup. "Well, let's not waste any time then. I've already read in the records your official account of what happened that night – " He slid a piece of paper across the coffee table, which she picked up, but didn't read. "Is there anything that you feel was left out, that could help the case?"

"Yes," said Wakana immediately.

Youichi blinked. He settled back, sinking into the plush back of his chair, but after several quiet seconds, Wakana still had not said anything.

"I see," he finally said. "Then, whenever you feel ready…"

Wakana took several troubled sips of her tea, before cupping the cup in her two hands. "Eijun said it wasn't him, but I know Eijun and I have my doubts," she said. "There was another man with us when we went out for yakisoba that night. And when we separated, the other man was still with Eijun. I think they must have been fighting before I met up with them, because it felt tense the whole evening. That's partly why I left early – I thought they needed to talk."

Abruptly, she stopped talking. She looked down at the liquid in her cup with a focused gaze that somehow reminded Youichi of the way the pitcher himself had looked down at his hand.

"Do you know if there was a reason why this other man was never mentioned in the official report?" he asked.

Slowly, Wakana nodded. "Eijun didn't want him to get in trouble. He said he wasn't involved. He made me promise not to tell the police, too."

"I'm not the police," said Youichi carefully, and she nodded again. "Then, can you tell me who this man was?"

Wakana nodded a third time. "Furuya Satoru," she said, her face pinching at the name. "The reliever for the Yomiuri Giants."

* * *

><p>As the temperature had dramatically dropped over the week, the next time Youichi met Sawamura's manager at the café to report his findings, they were seated indoors.<p>

Carefully leaving out what he'd uncovered from his talk with a certain young woman, Youichi simply outlined his research. This however did rule out the majority of Sawamura's teammates, who had all been able to provide a solid alibi for that night.

"If what you're saying is true, it's a relief to know that it wasn't an internal dispute," said Kominato, with a small smile. "Have you looked into other teams? For one, the Chunichi Dragons were second place in the league after us – "

"It wasn't anyone from another team, Harucchi," said Sawamura, looking up for the first time that evening.

"How do you know?"

"I just do," said Sawamura stubbornly.

Kominato sighed, and turned to Youichi. "Eijun claims he was too drunk to remember his attacker's face, but I think he must be hiding something, since I know for a fact that he's quite capable of holding his alcohol."

"No I'm not. Not since..." Sawamura trailed off, and Kominato's face immediately crumbled.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry," he apologized, his ears turning pink. "I didn't mean that."

Youichi raised an eyebrow, but Kominato seemed reluctant to explain, and Sawamura didn't talk for the rest of the evening.

* * *

><p>Tokyo Dome. A massive baseball stadium with a maximum capacity of 55,000.<p>

Home field of the Tokyo Yomiuri Giants, one of the best-known and most popular pro baseball teams in all of Japan. With a massive and faithful fan following, all of their baseball games are regularly televised.

And among the Yomiuri Giants, one of their most popular and commercialized players would have to be Furuya Satoru, a power pitcher and their star reliever. Youichi had seen his face plastered across the posters of energy drinks multiple times in Shinjuku. Personally, he thought the pitcher had a rather sullen look to him, but he was apparently especially well-received among young women.

Youichi thought it rather ironic, considering that Furuya had brought back three different men in the short space of one week. He had been keeping watch outside of the pitcher's apartment, which was located a short walk's distance away from the white dome.

If a simple private investigator like him could find out so easily, he couldn't help but wonder how the pitcher had not yet been caught and sensationalized by the paparazzi.

Youichi rolled down the window of his Acura, and lit up another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he then held it out the window, ashing it occasionally. It was another cold, clear night. The street was dark, lit only by a single dim streetlamp. Most of the lights in the apartment complex were off. The light from the gate guard booth was on, but it always was.

And that was the single, gaping hole in Aotsuki Wakana's suspicions regarding Furuya Satoru.

With several 5000 yen notes pressed into the guard's hand, Youichi had been able to get his hands easily enough on the apartment's security footage from the night Sawamura Eijun had been attacked. But in the footage, Satoru Furuya drove up to the gate not even ten minutes after the purported timing of the incident, which had taken place in some dark alley near Shibuya. It was physically and temporally impossible that Furuya had been anywhere near Sawamura when his hand was crushed.

So what was Youichi still doing outside the pitcher's apartment?

In his side mirror, a tall, dark-haired man stepped into view. "Who are you?"

Without answering, Youichi took a final drag from his cigarette, before dropping the butt onto the ground. He opened the door and stepped out.

"I said, who are you?"

"Nobody important," said Youichi.

"How did you find my address? I've seen your car outside here several times now. You don't live here."

Youichi rubbed the side of his neck. "Here's my question," he started slowly. "Why is it that Sawamura Eijun has gone out of his way to exclude you from his report regarding the follow-up to his assault?"

Immediately blanching, the man – who was of course, Furuya Satoru – took a step backwards. "I didn't do it," he said. Youichi offered him a predator-like smile.

"I didn't say you did."

"Who are you? Are you from the police? I _didn't do it._"

"You are not a suspect," said Youichi, artfully avoiding answering the question. "But I believe that you know something that could help the investigation. So back to my original question – could you tell me why Sawamura Eijun is trying to protect you?"

Furuya's face twisted. "Sawamura's not trying to protect _me._ He just didn't want anyone questioning me. He's trying to protect himself. He's that kind of guy."

"Is there something you know that he doesn't want the authorities to know?"

Furuya shrugged, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He buried his hands in the pockets of his long coat.

"We're off the record, if it helps," he added. "None of what you say will be used to implicate Sawamura in any way." Which was true, since Youichi wasn't a police detective.

"He's not doing anything illegal," Furuya snapped. "He just hasn't been himself for a while now. He's been taking…risks he wouldn't normally have."

_Hasn't been himself, lately._ Something similar had happened with the manager. It had been bothering Youichi ever since.

"The two of you were on the same team in high school, yes? So you've known him for a fairly long time." Furuya nodded. "Do you know what could have happened to change Sawamura?"

Furuya hesitated – and then nodded again. "You didn't hear it from me," he said warningly.

"Of course not. This is off the record, like I said."

Slowly, Furuya gave another final nod. "It's probably…well, I'm fairly certain that it's because of Miyuki Kazuya, his old catcher. He died last December."

* * *

><p>As it had been for the past month, his apartment was dark when Youichi opened the door. Tiredly, he kicked off his shoes in the entryway.<p>

There was only breakfast food in the refrigerator, so after a minute's pondering, he ordered takeout from Yingming's Garden. Unloosening his tie, he threw himself on his couch. If the remote hadn't been near him, he may have simply lay there, but it was within reach, so picking it up, he turned on the TV and began to flip through the channels.

The news stations had all gotten tired of the Sawamura story, it seemed, for they were all talking about something else. It probably hadn't helped that Sawamura was refusing to talk to the reporters about what had happened. There'd been some initial speculations of PTSD, but that wasn't good enough to keep the public's attention, so the stations had moved on.

After a while, Youichi put down the remote and simply let the chatter of a sitcom wash over him. The weight of his eyelids felt unnaturally heavy on his eyeballs. He was just about to fall asleep when his cellphone began to vibrate in his pocket.

His eyes flashing open, he quickly pulled it out – but it was only the deliveryman.

* * *

><p>Youichi stretched back in his office armchair, his mind swimming with words.<p>

_Miyuki Kazuya. 25 years old at time of death. Ex-catcher for the Tokyo Yakult Swallows._

He had also been recruited by the same baseball powerhouse high school as Sawamura in Tokyo, becoming the team's starting catcher in his second year. Instead of immediately going pro, Miyuki went to college where he played college baseball. After he earned a degree in business management, he was approached by many pro teams, including the Yomiuri Giants, but decided to sign with the Yakult Swallows, where he quickly became their main catcher.

Miyuki, like Sawamura, was also an only child, though his mother had died at a young age. He had also not been seen in the public eye with a romantic liaison, and seemed to have had even fewer friends than Sawamura. He also did not have a history of mental illness or death, nor had anything happened that could have triggered something. Simply one wintery morning, he had been found hanging from the rafters of his closet.

There was no mention of Sawamura in Miyuki's profile, but they had been a battery on the same high school and pro teams. They must have known each other very well. In baseball, batterymates were jokingly referred to as 'husband and wife' after all.

_You are to wed this woman and become her partner. Do you promise to love, respect, comfort, and help this person through peaceful times and through sickness, until death?_

Yes, I promise.

_You are to wed this man and become his partner. Do you promise to love, respect, comfort, and help this person through peaceful times and through sickness, until death?_

Yes, I promise.

* * *

><p>"Where is Sawamura?" asked Youichi, as he and Kominato settled down into their usual table at the café. Kominato had come alone this time, bringing only the usual briefcase.<p>

"He wasn't feeling well today," Kominato said apologetically.

"I see," he said. "Well, that makes things easier for me then." Kominato looked questioningly at him. "Has Sawamura, to your knowledge, ever exhibited any inclinations toward self-harm?"

Kominato frowned and shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "Trust me, I have known Eijun for a long time. He would never do anything like that."

"I have heard from several of his acquaintances that he hasn't been 'himself,'" said Youichi. For a second, an uncertain look flashed across Kominato's face, but it was quickly smoothed over.

"I wouldn't say that he hasn't been himself," he said slowly. "Rather…he's changed, I suppose. But anyone would, after…"

"After his catcher committed suicide," Youichi filled in.

Kominato looked startled, but then nodded. "He was close with Miyuki. Very close. His death shook Eijun of course."

"Do you know why he…?"

Kominato shook his head. "Nobody knows. Not even Eijun. I asked him, you see. I thought I could help him if I knew. But Eijun just gave me this terribly lost look and said he didn't know either."

At the next table, a waitress fumbled and dropped a dish. At the shattering sound it made as it broke into a dozen pieces on the floor, Kominato jumped. His eyes refocused.

"So, have you had any other leads on the assailant…?"

"There was one," said Youichi. "But while I was tailing him, I found evidence that pointed towards his innocence."

Kominato sighed and got up. "Well, if that's all, then." With a nod toward Youichi, he got up from his seat and left.

As he watched the other man leave, Youichi's hand twitched toward the Seven Stars carton in his pocket, but he resisted. He had ordered a coffee, and wanted to wait for it before leaving.

There were salad greens and grape tomatoes on the floor. The waitress was on her knees, picking up the bigger pieces of broken china with her hands and putting it in a plastic bag.

It reminded him of something that had happened years ago.

"_Careful, you'll hurt yourself," he said, kneeling beside his wife. "Go get the vacuum cleaner. I'll pick up the rest."_

"_Okay,"_ _she said, getting up. "Is it still in the bathroom closet?"_

"_It should be," he said. "If it's not there, I probably left it out on the balcony."_

"_Got it."_

_He began to pick up the scattered pieces of white china, quickly getting absorbed into the work as he had a tendency to do. However, a minute later, there was a crashing sound and then a yelp. Startled out of whatever reverie he was in, his hand jerked, and he felt a stabbing pain on his finger. Without paying any mind to it, he got up and raced to the hall. His wife was on the floor, rubbing her head, the old scratched vacuum cleaner on its side beside her._

"_What happened?" he asked, his heart still pounding._

"_It was on the upper shelf." She winced. "I reached up to grab it, and well…" Suddenly, her eyes widened. She pointed at him. "Youichi…your hand!"_

_He looked down, and to his shock, saw a dark pool on the ground. Blood was dripping like pearls from his hand._

"One black coffee," said the waiter, placing a mug down on a coaster in front of him. "Would you like milk or cream with that, sir?"

* * *

><p>Youichi had a strange dream that night.<p>

_A cloud of red, yellow and brown autumn leaves was fluttering down from a row of trees by a long black road. The air was thick with the smell of dry leaves. It was quiet, except for the sound of the rustling leaves colliding into one another before coming to a rest on the earth, and of the occasional swallow that had yet to leave for the east._

_Suddenly, there was a fizzing sound, and Youichi realized that a pair of men were standing by the side of the road. One of them was Sawamura, and the other was a bespectacled man he had never seen before except on TV. They had just opened a can of beer and were sharing it between the two of them, looking up occasionally at the falling leaves._

_The man with glasses said something, but Youichi couldn't hear him. It must have been amusing, however, for Sawamura laughed._

"_Did you really have to throw it back that hard?" said Sawamura._

_The man with glasses said something that Youichi couldn't hear, and Sawamura shook his head in exasperation. They then stopped talking, and continued to drain the beer in companionable silence._

_After a while, Youichi's attention began to be drawn elsewhere, to the leaves that were dancing down, to the long and pale limbs of the trees. There was a loud rustling in the carpet of leaves on the ground, but when Youichi turned to look, whatever it had been was gone. And when he looked back up, the two were gone as well. He was alone once more._

* * *

><p>Brushing aside the hanging cloth at the restaurant's entrance, they ducked inside, whereupon they were greeted cheerily by a man in a white chef uniform.<p>

It was warmly lit, and cramped, with a number of people already seated around a large circular metal grill. Sizzling sounds and the smell of fried noodles filled the air, tightly encircling the chatter of the occupants.

"I come here a lot. The yakisoba is quite good," said Sawamura. With some difficulty, he one-handedly maneuvered his way out of his jersey. He didn't take off his cap, having explained to Youichi that with his face having been on the news, even non-baseball fans were liable to recognize him now.

The waitress came by with her notepad, and asked if either of them wanted a drink. Youichi looked at Sawamura, who shook his head, so instead of his usual beer, he settled for a cup of tea. The two of them ordered the Set B combo with yakisoba.

"So is there any reason why you wanted dinner?" Sawamura asked, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the counter. He seemed more relaxed, more real here than he ever had in the café.

"I figured it would help to get to know you, if I wanted to uncover who assaulted you," said Youichi.

"How's the search going?" Sawamura sounded amused.

"Good. Actually, I'm fairly certain I'm close to finding out the culprit." He looked directly at Sawamura as he said this, but the other man didn't react except to raise his eyebrows in polite surprise. "But more of that later. Have you given any thoughts to your future baseball career?"

"Yes." Sawamura glanced down at his bandaged hand. "I've been talking with my doctor. The damage wasn't complete. I won't be able to pitch again with this hand, but I might be able to throw somewhat. And I've been wondering whether I couldn't just switch to my right hand." He looked up and grinned at Youichi's expression. "I'm joking. If I were a good batter, I could have switched to a fielding position. Maybe. But I'm just an average batter. A master bunter, but..." He trailed off.

Their food arrived then, and for the most of dinner, they ate in silence. As they did so, Youichi noticed that Sawamura every now and then would suddenly stop what he was doing – whether it was raising a forkful of noodles to his mouth or taking a sip of his tea – and look down at his bandaged hand. It almost seemed as if he were expecting something to happen, but after a few moments, he relaxed and resumed whatever he'd been doing.

"Is there a reason why you keep looking at your hand?" Youichi finally asked.

Sawamura shifted in his seat. He picked at a slab of chicken on his plate with a fork. He'd had to ask the waitress for a fork instead of chopsticks, and clumsily stabbed at his food with his right hand. "It just feels unreal," he said.

"You mean concerning the incident?"

"Yes. It feels like none of that happened. I keep thinking that if I look down at the right moment, the bandages won't be there. My hand will be as it was. Have you ever felt that way?"

"I might have."

"I can tell you this because I don't know you at all. And because you don't know me at all," said Sawamura. The chicken was almost completely shredded now.

"I see."

"I'm done with this," he said suddenly. "Are you done? Can we go out and get some fresh air?"

Youichi paid the bill, and they left.

It was cold outside. Their breath came out in white mist every time they spoke, but Sawamura didn't put back on his jersey. Instead, he hung it over his shoulder.

Youichi took in a deep breath, and his lungs rattled with the sudden intake of cold air. His hand snaked into his pocket, and he pulled out his white carton. But when he opened it, it was empty.

"There's a Family Mart right over there," said Sawamura, gesturing across the street. "If you need one."

"Are you sure? I thought you didn't like cigarette smoke."

"That was before," he said simply.

Ten minutes later, they were both leaning against the rear end of Youichi's parked Acura. It was in a tiny, enclosed parking spot, surrounded on all sides by buildings that blocked the sky.

"I'm sure you've heard this many times," said Sawamura. "But you should quit smoking."

"I did when I got married." He exhaled appreciatively. The breeze carried the smoke away from them, and it dissipated quickly.

"What about now?"

"We got divorced."

"So you can smoke now?"

"Yeah."

"What's it like being a private investigator?"

Youichi paused. Ashing his cigarette with his thumb, he glanced at the man aside him. Sawamura was looking down at his hand again. "Research and surveillance," he said. "It involves a lot of driving and sitting around."

"Maybe I could be a private investigator then."

"Isn't there something else you're interested in?"

Sawamura shrugged. "I don't know. I've only played baseball my whole life. I barely graduated high school, and never went to college. I don't know how to do anything else."

Youichi exhaled again. "You're still young. You've got time to learn."

"I know. I've got a long life ahead of me." A gust of wind blew into the parking lot, and Sawamura shivered. Lifting the jersey from his shoulder, he haphazardly threw it around his arms. Youichi offered him a blanket from his car's trunk, but Sawamura politely declined.

Just as Youichi lit up a second cigarette, Sawamura began to speak again. "To be truthful, I wish I could just play baseball for the rest of my life, just the way it's always been. I know that my hand is ruined. It's gone. I won't be able to pitch anymore. But at the same time, in the corner of my eyes, I can see it the way it used to be, when it was whole. So I look down, but then it's gone again. It's just bandages and blood. It's broken, and it'll never be fixed. But I keep looking down, because I can't help but hope that _something _will happen to fix it." He looked at Youichi. "So I guess in that aspect, we're kind of similar."

"What do you mean?"

"Furuya called me a few days ago. He told me he felt terrible but he'd talked to the police about things. Of course, I knew right away the 'police' had been you. I know you know about Kazuya."

"Only the bare bones of it," said Youichi truthfully, with a glance down at the cigarette in his hand.

Sawamura shrugged, rubbing an arm with his good hand. "What else can I say? He was my catcher for so many years. He was my best friend. We didn't tell each other everything, but we told each other what mattered.

And then one Tuesday morning, I got a call from Harucchi telling me that something had happened. That he needed to see me right away. So I, you know, finished my cereal. I put on my socks, put on a coat. Forgot my car keys on the counter, so I went back to get it. Put on my shoes, went out, locked my door. Hummed a song I liked but couldn't remember the lyrics to. Started the engine, turned the radio on. Began driving out of the garage. By the time I met up with Harucchi, I knew what had happened, of course. It was all over the news."

Sawamura paused. "I'd thought I knew everything that mattered about him, but I was wrong of course. _You can't ever really understand someone._ That's what I realized." He looked down at his bandaged hand. "I wondered for a long time afterward, why he killed himself. What was so bad that he had to die? I knew he'd had a fight with his father, but that was something that happened all the time. They never got along, you see. Do you know why you and your wife got divorced?"

Youichi blew out a ring of smoke. "I was too busy for her. At least, I think so. She left without really telling me."

"What was her name?"

"Haruno."

"Do you miss her?"

He hesitated, but Sawamura didn't seem to expect him to answer. Instead, he drew in a shaky, rattling breath. His face had taken on a twisted, almost frustrated expression.

"After my hand got ruined, I wondered if Kazuya would be happy now that I couldn't pitch anymore. When I pitched to another catcher after he died, it almost felt like I was cheating on him. But then I realized, he wouldn't be happy or sad or anything. He's just gone."

"Gone," Youichi echoed, not knowing what else to say. He noticed that the glowing end of the cigarette was growing closer and closer to his fingers.

Sawamura turned to him, and this time, the strangely blank apologetic look was back on his face. It was interesting, Youichi thought, how quickly this man's face seemed to change. It was as if the man himself didn't know what expression to wear.

"Kazuya and I had dinner together, the night before he died," Sawamura continued. "We ate the Set B combo with yakisoba. We drank some beers. He paid for both of our meals, saying he had no need of the money. Then we went out to where he'd parked his car, and leaned against the hood, just talking. We talked about baseball, mostly, like we always did. He brought up that he'd fought with his father, so I gave him some advice I knew he wouldn't take. And then we went home, and the next morning, he was dead. Do you understand?"

"I don't know," Youichi said.

The cigarette was almost nothing but a short white stub now, its burning portion almost touching his skin. Youichi could feel his fingers growing hotter.

Sawamura got up. "I'll tell Harucchi your investigation's over. Case closed. I'll have him send you a free ticket to Yakult's next game against the Giants."

"You won't be pitching though," said Youichi. Were his fingers bleeding or were they on fire? He didn't know.

Sawamura didn't answer. Instead, with a wave of his right hand, he began to walk away. Youichi watched as his back grew smaller and smaller. Then, he turned at the corner and disappeared behind a building. Afterwards, several cars passed by in a blur.

Finally, as if a spell had been broken, Youichi instantly dropped the cigarette butt onto the ground and crushed it below his heel. When he removed his foot, there were only black ashes. He looked down at his hot fingers, but to his faint relief, they were unscathed.

Suddenly, the dream from the night before flashed through his mind, and he wondered if he would see that black road and the line of trees with their falling leaves again. If he did, would there be anyone else there? The entire world must have been treading down that road, but at the moment, he couldn't see even a single one.

He pulled out his Seven Stars carton again, and a second later, the smoke from another cigarette was curling up into the sky.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I realized as I was writing this, that part of this is basically an episode of Law and Order...


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